Feed
by ATasteOfFaberry
Summary: You cannot kill the truth. - Rachel Berry. Rachel and Quinn are bloggers in a world where zombies are a real threat. Follow them as they fall into a world of deception, betrayal and death. Adaption of Mira Grants novel Feed, Faberry style.
1. Ch 1

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Glee or Feed. They belong to Ryan Murphy and Mira Grant, respectively.

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**Everyone has someone on the Wall.**

No matter how remote you may think you are from the events that changed the world during the brutal summer of 2014, you have someone on the Wall. Maybe they're a cousin, maybe they're an old family friend, or maybe they are just somebody you saw on TV once, but they are yours. They belong to you. They died to make sure that you could sit in your safe little house behind your safe little walls, watching the words of one jaded twenty-two-year-old journalist go scrolling across your computer screen. Think about that for a moment. They _died_ for you.

Now take a good look at the life you're living and tell me: Did they do the right thing? —From _Images May Disturb You_, the blog of RACHEL BERRY, May 16, 2039

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_You cannot kill the truth._ —RACHEL BERRY

_Nothing is impossible to kill. It's just that sometimes after you kill something, you have to keep shooting it until it stops moving. And that's really kind of interesting when you stop to think about it._ —QUINN FABRAY

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Our story opens where countless other stories have ended in the last twenty-six years: with a moron—in this case, my girlfriend Quinn—deciding that it would be a good idea to go out and poke a zombie with a stick to see what happens. As if we had no clue what happens when you decide that poking a zombie with a stick is the greatest idea since sliced bread: The zombie turns around and bites you, and then you fall into the grips of the infection and become the very thing you were just poking a moment ago. This really is not much of a surprise. It has not been a surprise for more than twenty years, and if you want to get technical, it still was not a surprise _then._

When the infected first appeared—heralded by screams that the dead were rising and judgment day was at hand—they behaved just like the horror movies had been telling us for decades that they would behave. The only surprise was that this time, there really was an undead creature trying to tear down doors and eat you.

There was no warning before the outbreaks began. One day, things were normal; the next, people who were supposedly dead were getting up and attacking anything that came within biting range. This was upsetting for everyone involved, except for the infected, who were obviously more interested in how fast they could sink their gross, unhygienic teeth into your flesh. The initial shock was followed by running and screaming, which eventually devolved into more infection and attacking, the panic almost bringing about the end of the world. So what do we have now, in this enlightened age twenty-six years after the Rising? We have morons prodding zombies with sticks, which brings us full circle to my girlfriend and why she probably will not live a long and fulfilling life with me in a secluded area far off from all this 'let us go poke a few zombies' nonsense.

"Hey, Rach, check this out!" she shouted, giving the zombie another poke in the chest with her hockey stick. The zombie gave a low moan, swinging its arms at her ineffectually. It had obviously been in a state of full viral amplification for some time and did not have the strength or physical dexterity left to knock the stick out of Quinn's hands. I will give her this much: She knows not to bother the fresh ones at close range. "We're just playing patty-cake Rach!"

"Stop antagonizing the locals and get back on the bike," I said, glaring from behind my sunglasses. Her current buddy might be sick enough to be nearing its second, final death, but that did not mean there wasn't a healthier pack scouting the area for fresh meat to devour. Santa Cruz is zombie territory. You do not go there unless you are suicidal, stupid, or both. There are times when even I can not guess which of those options applies to Quinn.

"I can't talk right now! I'm busy making friends with the locals!"

"Quinn Elizabeth Fabray, you get back on this bike _right now_, or I swear to Streisand, I am going to drive away and leave you here and you will become nothing more than a snack cake for the _locals _you decided would be a great idea to make friends with!"

Quinn looked around, eyes bright with sudden interest as she planted the end of her hockey stick at the center of the zombie's chest to keep it at a safe distance. "Really? You would do that for me? Because 'My Girlfriend Abandoned Me in Zombie Country Without a Vehicle' would make a great article."

"A posthumous one, maybe, considering how unlikely it would be that you would make it back alive on foot," I snapped. "Now get back on the goddamn _bike __or there will be no sexy times for you in the near to distant future since I refuse to have a zombie for a girlfriend_!"

"In a minute!" she said, laughing, and turned back toward her moaning, rotting friend.

In retrospect, that was most definitely when everything went more wrong than I could have possibly imagined.

The pack had probably been stalking us since before we hit the city limits, gathering reinforcements from all over the county as they approached. Packs of infected get smarter and more dangerous the larger they become. Groups of four or less are barely a threat unless they can corner you, but a pack of twenty or more stands a good chance of breaching any barrier the uninfected try to put up. You get enough of the infected together and they'll start displaying pack hunting techniques, not unlike the workings of wolves; they will start using actual tactics. It is almost like the virus that has taken them over starts to reason when it gets enough hosts in the same place. It is scary as hell, and it is just about the worst nightmare of anyone who regularly goes into zombie territory—getting cornered by a large group that knows the land better than you do.

These zombies knew the land better than we did, and even the most malnourished and virus-ridden pack knows how to lay an ambush since there is nothing better to drive an pack of flesh-hungry infected than the fact that they have not eaten in weeks. A low moan echoed from all sides, and then they were shambling into the open, some moving with the slow lurch of the long infected, others moving at something close to a run since they had not been infected long and were very much still intact. The runners led the pack, cutting off three of the remaining methods of escape before there was time to do more than stare. I looked at them and shuddered.

Fresh infected—the really fresh ones that were probably just amplified days ago, at most—still look almost like the people that they used to be. Their faces show as much emotion as it can for an undead creature, and they move with a jerkiness that could just mean they had slept wrong and caused a muscle to cramp up, making it difficult to move. It is harder to kill something that still looks like a person, and worst of all, the bastards are incredibly fast. The only thing more dangerous than a fresh zombie is a pack of them, and I counted at least eighteen before I realized that I did not want to end up as an infected and miss out on all my hopes, dreams and aspirations.

I grabbed my helmet and shoved it on without fastening the strap, which under normal circumstance would not have happened that way. Usually I promote safety and I always make sure everything is where it needs to be before starting the bike. However, if the bike went down, dying because my helmet did not stay fastened to my head would be one of the better options. I would reanimate and walk amongst the locals, but at least I would not be aware of my need to chew on my girlfriend's arm. "Quinn!"

Quinn whipped around, staring at the emerging zombies. "Whoa."

Unfortunately for Quinn, the addition of that many zombies had turned her buddy from a stupid solo infected into part of a smart thinking and mobilizing mob. The zombie grabbed the hockey stick as soon as Quinn's attention was focused on the increasingly growing threat of death, yanking it out of her hands. Quinn staggered forward and the zombie latched onto her vest, withered fingers locking down with deceptive strength. It hissed. I screamed, images of my inevitable future as a lonely old lesbian with fifty cats and no friends filling my mind.

_"Quinn!"_ One bite and things would get a lot worse. There are not very many things that are worse than being cornered by a pack of zombies in downtown Santa Cruz. Losing Quinn would qualify as something being much worse despite her habits of poking things with sticks, believe me.

The fact that my girlfriend convinced me to take a dirt bike into zombie territory does not make me an idiot by any stretch of the imagination. I was wearing full off-road body armor, including a leather jacket with steel armor joints attached at the elbows and shoulders, a Kevlar vest, motorcycling pants with hip and knee protectors, and calf-high riding boots. It's bulky as hell, and I did not care, because once you factor in my gloves, my throat is the only target I present in the field. At least it was better than argyle and plaid, according to Quinn.

Quinn, on the other hand, is a moron and had gone zombie baiting in nothing more defensive than a shirt with a nice vest, a Kevlar vest under that, and cargo pants. She won't even wear goggles—she says they "spoil the effect." Unprotected mucous membranes can spoil a hell of a lot more than that since all it takes is one spot of blood to hit you just right, but I practically have to blackmail her to get her into the Kevlar. Goggles are something that will never happen and I have come to terms with this fact.

There's one advantage to wearing a vest in the field, no matter how idiotic I think it is: vest have buttons and those are easily torn off with the right amount of strength. Quinn ripped herself free and turned, running for the motorcycle with great speed, which is really the only effective weapon we have against the infected. Not even the fresh ones can keep up with an uninfected human over a short sprint. We have speed, and we have bullets. Everything else about this fight is in their favor.

"Shit, Rach, we have company!" There was a perverse mixture of horror and delight in her tone. "Look at them all!"

"I have been _looking _since I told you to get on the bike, Quinn! This is no time for celebration as I do not wish to become food for the undead!"

I kicked us free as soon as she had her leg over the back of the bike and her arms around my waist. The bike leapt forward, tires bouncing and shuddering across the broken ground as I steered us into a wide curve. We needed to get out of there, or all the protective gear in the world would not do us a damn bit of good. I might live if the zombies caught up with us, but my girlfriend would be dragged into the mob and that was not something that I had planned on happening today. I gunned the throttle, praying that God had time to preserve the life of the clinically suicidal since what I was about to do would most certainly end in us becoming mindless infected.

We hit the last open route out of the square at twenty miles an hour, still gathering speed. Whooping, Quinn decided she only needed one arm around my waist and twisted to face the zombies, waving and blowing kisses in their direction. If it were possible to enrage a mob of the infected, she would have managed it easily. She could never turn down the chance at taunting the undead with her delicious, meaty body. As it was, they just moaned and kept following, arms extended toward the promise of fresh and tasty meat, since I know that Quinn and I are mouth-watering specimens of the human race. If undead could drool, I am positive that they would be at this very moment.

The road was pitted from years of weather damage without maintenance since no one has lived in this area since the break out happened. I fought to keep control as we bounced from pothole to pothole. _"Keep holding on, you moron!"_

"I am holding on!" Quinn called back, seeming happy as a clam and oblivious to the fact that people who did not follow proper safety procedures around zombies—like not winding up around zombies in the first place—tend to wind up in the obituaries and shambling around in abandoned cities.

"Hold on with both arms!" The moaning was only coming from three sides now, but that did not mean anything; a pack this size was almost certainly smart enough to establish an ambush. I could be driving straight into the biggest mob in the area. They would moan in the end, once we were right on top of them. No zombie can resist a good moan when dinner was being served to them on the back of a bike. The fact that I could hear them over the engine meant that there were too many, too close. If we were lucky, it was not already too late to get away.

Of course, if we were lucky, we would not have been getting chased by an army of zombies through the quarantine area that used to be downtown Santa Cruz either. We would be somewhere safer, like Bikini Atoll just before the bomb testing kicked off. Once you decide to ignore the hazard rating and the signs saying _Danger: Infection,_ you were on your own.

Quinn grudgingly slid her other arm around my waist and linked her hands at the pit of my stomach, shouting, "Spoilsport," as she settled.

I huffed and hit the gas again, aiming for a nearby hill. When you are being chased by zombies, hills are either your best friends or your burial ground. The slope slows them down, which is great, unless you hit the peak and find out that you are surrounded, with nowhere left to run to.

Moron or not, Quinn knows the rules about zombies and hills. She is not as dumb as he pretends to be, and she knows more about surviving zombie encounters than I do. Her grip on my waist tightened, and for the first time, there was actual concern in her voice as she shouted, "Rach? What do you think you're doing?"

"Hold on," I said. Then we were rolling up the hill, bringing more zombies stumbling out of their hiding places behind trash cans and in the spaces between the once-elegant beachfront houses that were now settling into a state of neglected decay.

Most of California was reclaimed after the Rising, but no one has ever managed to take back Santa Cruz. The geographical isolation that once made the town so very desirable as a vacation spot pretty much damned it when the virus hit. Kellis-Amberlee may be unique in the way it interacts with the human body, but it behaves just like every other communicable disease known to man in at least one way: Put it on a school campus and it spreads like wildfire, consuming everything in its path until it is either put out or has nothing left to burn. U.C. Santa Cruz was a perfect breeding ground, and once all those perky co-eds became the shuffling infected, it was all over but the evacuation notices.

"Rachel, this is a hill!" she said with increasing urgency as the locals lunged toward the speeding bike. She was using my proper name; that was how I could tell she was worried. I'm only "Rachel" when she is unhappy with a decision I have made or my choice of attire is less than ideal.

"I got that." I hunched over to decrease wind resistance a few more precious degrees. Quinn mimicked the motion automatically, hunching down behind me.

"Why are we going _up_ a hill?" she demanded. There was no way she would be able to hear my answer over the combined roaring of the engine, the moaning infected around us and the wind, but that was my girlfriend for you. Always willing to question that which can not talk back her.

"Ever wonder how the Wright brothers felt?" I asked. The crest of the hill was in view. From the way the street vanished on the other side, it was probably a pretty steep drop. The moaning was coming from all sides now, so distorted by the wind that I had no real idea what we were driving into. Maybe it was a trap; maybe it wasn't. Either way, it was too late to find another path and I sure as hell was not turning this bike around on a hill when we were already so close to the top. I may have been acting crazy at the moment but I am not suicidal. That job belonged to Quinn. We were committed, and for once, Quinn was the one becoming more and more afraid as we came closer and closer to what may be our last moments on this earth.

_"Rachel!"_

"Hold on!" Ten yards. The zombies kept closing, single-minded in their pursuit of what might be the first fresh meat some had seen in years. From the looks of most of them, the zombie problem in Santa Cruz was decaying faster than it was rebuilding itself. Sure, there were plenty of fresh ones—there are always fresh ones because there are always idiots who wander into quarantined zones, either willingly or by mistake, and the average hitchhiker does not get lucky where zombies are concerned—but we will take the city back in another three generations because by then, even the fresh ones would have long since died their second death and left Santa Cruz to the living once more.

Five yards.

Zombies hunt by moving toward the sound of other zombies hunting. It is recursive, and that meant our friends at the base of the hill started for the peak when they heard the commotion. I was hoping so many of the locals had been cutting us off at ground level that they wouldn't have many bodies left to mount an offensive on the hill's far side. We were not supposed to make it that far, after all; the only thing keeping us alive was the fact that we had a motorcycle and the zombies simply did not have the brain capacity to operate a motor vehicle.

I glimpsed the mob waiting for us as we reached the top. They were standing no more than three deep. Fifteen feet would see us clear.

Liftoff.

It is really amazing what you can use for a ramp, given the right motivation. Someone's collapsed fence was blocking half the road, jutting up at an angle, and I hit it at about fifty miles an hour. The handlebars shuddered in my hands like the horns of a mechanical bull, and the shocks were not doing much better. I did not have to check the road in front of us because the moaning started as soon as we came into view. They had blocked our exit fairly well while Quinn played patty-cake with her little friend, and mindless plague carriers or not, they had a better grasp of the local geography than we did since no living person has been in control of Santa Cruz since this plague hit the world. We still had one advantage: Zombies are not good at predicting suicide charges. And if there is a better term for driving up the side of a hill at fifty miles an hour with the goal of actually achieving flight when you run out of "up," I do not think I would like to hear the term.

The front wheel rose smoothly and the back followed, sending us into the air with a jerk that looked effortless and was actually scarier than knowing Broadway was not as popular as it used to be. I was screaming. Quinn was whooping with gleeful understanding. And then everything was in the hands of gravity, which has never had much love for the terminally stupid, as well as myself. And I had both things against me at this very moment. We hung in the air for a heart-stopping moment, still shooting forward. At least I was fairly sure the impact would kill us.

The laws of physics and the hours of work I have put into constructing and maintaining my bike combined to let the universe, for once, show mercy on those of us who sought out death. We soared over the zombies, coming down on one of the few remaining stretches of smooth road with a bone-bruising jerk that nearly ripped the handlebars out of my grip. The front wheel went light on impact, trying to rise up, and I screamed, half terrified, half furious with Quinn for getting us into this situation in the first place. The handlebars shuddered harder, almost wrenching my arms out of their sockets before I hit the gas and forced the wheel back down. I would pay for this in the morning, and not just with the repair bills but with aches and pains in areas that I would rather not have aches and pains in.

Not that it mattered. We were on level ground, we were upright, and there was no moaning ahead of us that would deter us from our destination. I hit the gas harder as we sped toward the outskirts of town, with Quinn whooping and cheering behind me like a big suicidal freak.

"Bitch," I muttered, and drove on.


	2. Blog 1

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Glee or Feed. They belong to Ryan Murphy and Mira Grant, respectively.

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There are the blog updates of the three people in this story, since they are bloggers. Enjoy. (:

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_The news is news and spin is spin and when you decide to introduce the first to the second, that is how one creates opinion._

_Don't get me wrong. I believe opinion is a very powerful thing. Being able to be presented with different opinions on the same subject is one of the most glorious things about free media and I believe that it should make people stop and think. But a lot of people don't __**want**__ to do such a thing. They don't want to admit that whatever their idol is spouting at the moment might not be completely unbiased and free of ulterior motives. We've got people out there who claim that Kellis-Amberlee was a weapon created by the Jews, the gays, the Middle East, even a branch of the Aryan Nation trying to achieve racial purity by killing off the rest of the population. Whoever orchestrated the creation and release of this virus masked their involvement in a conspiracy of Machiavellian proportions and now they and their followers are sitting it out, peacefully immunized, waiting for the world to come to its end._

_Pardon the expression but I can smell all the bullshit from where I sit. Conspiracy? Cover up? I'm pretty sure that there are groups out there who think that killing off thirty two percent of the world's population in a single summer would be the best idea that they have ever thought up-and remember, that's a conservative estimate considering we have never received a proper death count from Africa, Asia and parts of South America-but are any of them actually crazy enough to unleash what used to be Grandma on the unsuspecting public? To allow her to run rampant, chewing on the unsuspecting victims that they think should no longer be allowed to live? Zombies don't care about conspiracy, people. Conspiracy is for the living._

_This article is completely opinion, take it as you will. But would you please be so kind as to keep opinion the hell away from my news? I would rather read truth._

**-From **_**Images May Disturb You**_**,  
the blog of one Rachel Berry, September 3, 2039**

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_Zombies are pretty harmless if you treat them with respect. Some people claim that you should pity the zombie, empathize with the zombie but I believe that those people? They are the ones like to __**become**__ zombies themselves. Don't feel sorry for the zombies. They aren't feeling sorry for you when they are chewing on your head. Sorry people, but no one gets to know me that intimately aside from my girlfriend._

_If you want to deal with the zombies, then follow these simple rules. Stay away from the teeth, don't let them scratch you, keep your hair short and don't wear loose clothing. It's really simple when you stop to think about it. Making it more complicated than that would be boring and who wants that? We basically have what amounts to walking corpses._

_Don't suck all the fun out if it._

**-From **_**Hail to the Queen**_**  
the blog of Quinn Fabray, January 2, 2039**


	3. Ch 2

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Glee or Feed. They belong to Ryan Murphy and Mira Grant, respectively.

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Neither Quinn nor I spoke as we drove through what was left of Santa Cruz. There were no signs of any movement and the buildings were becoming further and further apart, rendering visual tracking more reliable than it was before. I began to relax as I took the exit to Highway 1, heading toward the south. We would connect with Highway 152 and make our way towards Watsonville and meet up with the van we had left there.

Watsonville was another of Northern California's cities that was lost to the undead. It was surrendered to the infected shortly after the summer of 2014, though it was much safer than Santa Cruz due to its close proximity to the protected farming community of Gilroy. This meant that while no one was honestly willing to live in Watsonville for fear of the zombies coming down from Santa Cruz for a midnight snack, the people of Gilroy were not about to allow the infected to have it either. They go into the city three times a year with flamethrowers and machine guns and clean the place out. This allows Watsonville to remain deserted while the people of Gilroy can keep feeding the rest of California.

I pulled off to the side of the road near the ruins of a small town named Aptos. It was right off the onramp to Highway 1 and there was flat ground in all directions, allowing us a broad line of sight and helped us keep track of anything that might have wanted to snack on us. My bike was beginning to run a bit rough so I needed to check everything out and getting some gas wasn't a bad idea either. Dirt bikes have a rather small tank and we've already gone quite a few miles without adding anything to it. Better safe than sorry.

Quinn turned toward me as she dismounted the bike, a huge grin plastered on her face. The wind had blown her hair about wildly, causing it to stick up in places that I'd not seen too often outside of the bedroom. "That," she started, sounding like she had just had the biggest, most life-changing religious experience in all her years of living, "was the single coolest thing I think I've ever seen you do. In fact, I'm almost positive it will be the coolest thing you will ever accomplish. And here I thought you're entire existence had been made apparent when you met me but obviously I was wrong. It was actually when you decided, 'Hey. Why don't we go _over _the zombies?'" she paused for a moment to gain a bit of effect before continuing, "I think you just may be cooler than God, Rach."

"Yet another chance to become the stereotypical old lady with a cat farm under her house, ruined by your inability to become a Happy Meal for the locals. Really, you should work on getting chewed on a little more, Quinn. You haven't had it done enough lately."

I hopped off of the bike and began to assess the damage my suicidal jump had caused it. The most obvious issues seemed to be fairly minor but I fully intended to get someone to check it out as soon as we got back home. Some of the damage was a bit much for my admittedly limited mechanical knowledge but for now, it would get us to where we were needed and that was fine with me.

"Don't worry about the ruined chance, Rach. I'm sure I'll provide you with another one soon enough."

"It is with that knowledge that I can easily admit that I await that chance with extreme giddiness," I replied with sarcasm dripping from my voice. I balanced the helmet against the wind screen before turning to the right saddlebag and pulling out the gas can inside. Setting the can on the ground, I dug about and pulled out the first aid kit. Turning to Quinn, I opened it up. "Blood test time."

"Rach—"

"You know the rules, Quinn. We have been in the field and have been in contact with the infected. We shall not return to the base until we've both had our virus levels checked and we can guarantee that we do not have elevated levels. You can thank your friendly local that you wanted to play patty cake with, for had it not decided to grab you, perhaps this wouldn't be necessary."

I extracted two small handheld testing units, holding out one for her to take. "No levels, no van. No van, no bacon. No bacon, no joy. Would you like to acquire that joy, Quinn, or would you rather stand in the middle of nowhere and wait for the infected to come and make bacon out of you?"

"You are slowly melting away the cool factor you just got, Rach," she muttered while grabbing a test.

"I would rather be uncool, Quinn, than undead. Now, shall we see if I have to shoot you today?"

Moving with a synchronicity born from long practice, we broke the biohazard seals and popped the plastic lids off our testing units, exposing the sterile metal pressure pads. These basic field tests only work once but they are a necessary part of field work and they are rather cheap. You need to know if someone has started the viral amplification process and it would be much preferred if that was before they started chewing on your tasty meat.

I unsnapped my right glove and pulled it off, shoving it into my pocket. "On three?"

"On three," Quinn agreed.

"One."

"Two."

We both reached out and slid our index fingers into the unit the other was holding out. Call it a quirk of ours. Also call it a much needed early warning system. If either of us waits until the other says three, something is most definitely wrong.

The metal was cool against my finger has I pressed down on the pressure pad, a soothing sensation followed by the sharp pain of the tests needle breaking the skin. Diabetes tests don't hurt; they want you to keep using them and comfort makes a huge difference as to whether you will or not. Kellis-Amberlee blood testing units hurt on purpose due to the fact that if you start amplification, you won't feel the pain and that is another warning sign that you should probably be shot on sight.

The LED lights on the unit turned on, one green and one red, flashing in an alternating pattern. The flashing slowed down and eventually stopped, the red going out and the green shinning brightly. Still clean and I let out a breath as I noticed the light on Quinn's indicated the same fate as my own.

"Guess you shall live to see another day, dear Quinn. Should I count myself lucky?"

"Of course. Maybe next time, right?" she replied with a grin. She gave me a quick kiss on the cheek as I handed her the test in my hand. Allowing her the job of cleaning that up, I turned back to the gas can sitting next to the bike. While I refilled the tank, she replaced the plastic covers to the units, triggering the internal bleach dispensers before pulling out a biohazard bag and dropping the tests inside. The top of the bag turned red as she sealed it, melting itself closed. The bag itself was triple-enforced making it next to impossible to reopen it. Still, she checked all the seals and edges before putting it and the first-aid kit back into the saddlebag on the bike.

While she was busy taking care of the containment steps, I was busy emptying the contents of the gas can into the tank on the bike. We had been running so close to empty that the thought of hitting empty during the chase shook me to the core. If we had run out of gas while being chased…

Best not to think about it. I took the empty gas can and placing it back in its proper place before turning toward Quinn. I watched as she climbed back on the bike, clicking my tongue in disapproval.

"What are we forgetting to do?"

"To go back to Santa Cruz for postcards?" she supplied hopefully.

"Helmet, Quinn."

"Rach, we're on a flat road with no chance of running into infected. I highly doubt that we will get into an accident."

"Helmet. I am not arguing with you about this point any longer. You will put it on or I won't move the bike from this spot."

"I didn't have to wear it just moments ago," she fought back.

"We were being chased by a horde of undead looking for their next meal. I did not have time to reiterate the importance of helmet safety and that was no fault of my own. Had I enough time to actually tell you to put it on, I assure you I would have. Helmet, now. Otherwise, you shall continue the rest of this journey on foot and I will make sure there is no bacon when you get back to van, hours from now."

Rolling her eyes at me in a manner I was all too familiar with, she unstrapped her helmet from the left saddlebag and shoved it onto her head. Turning back to face me, she responded coldly, "Happy now?"

"Ecstatic," I replied while placing my own helmet on my head, "Let's get out of here, shall we?"

The rest of the way to Watsonville was uneventful. The roads were empty, clear of cars and undead alike which caused a great joy inside me. Call me dull but after flying through the air trying to escape the undead, I had seen enough zombies to last me a lifetime and I was thankful to not have a repeat encounter on the way home.

Our van was parked on the outskirts of town with at least twenty feet distance between it and any standing structure nearby. Standard safety precautions. It was pretty hard to sneak up on someone when there was nothing to cover you from sight. I pulled up next to it and cut the engine, Quinn jumping off the bike before it even completely stopped. While I was removing my helmet, I heard her open the door and shout out, "Hey Britt! How was the footage?"

Ah, the enthusiasm of the young. Not that she was really much older than I. We were both adopted and neither of us came with an original birth certificate but the doctors had estimated that I was around three weeks older than she. Not that you could actually tell. Sometimes I could swear she was years younger than I and the doctors simply made a mistake on the paperwork. Setting my helmet down, I tugged off my gloves and slung them over the handlebars before following her to the van at a much slower pace.

The inside of the van was a testament to what a person could accomplish with a lot of time, a bit of money and three years of night classes in electronics. And the internet as well. We never would have figured out where all that wiring should go had it not been for people chiming in from all over the place. Quinn's mother had installed reinforcements and security upgrades, supposedly as a favor to us but Brittany had disabled them as quickly as they had been put in. That didn't stop her mom from trying to breach it every so often however.

After several years of work, we managed to turn the inside of a mostly gutted Channel 7 news van into a state-of-the-art traveling blog center, complete with camera feeds, a wireless tower, a self-sustaining homing device and so much back up storage that it made my head spin just trying to think about how it all works. That Brittany's job, along with being the perkiest, blondest and most outwardly flakiest member of our little blog team. And she did all four jobs extremely well. Most people thought Brittany didn't even know how to turn on a computer, let alone make sure no one else could hack into our systems.

Brittany herself was sitting cross-legged in one of the three chairs that was crammed into what little remaining floor space the van had left, looking thoughtful has she held a headset up to her ear. Quinn was standing behind her, bouncing from one foot to the next in excitement as she watched the footage replay on the screen in front of her. Sometimes I wonder how I put up with her line of work and what it entitles her to do.

Brittany didn't seem to realize I was there but acknowledged my presence as soon as I closed the van door. "Hey, Rachel," she said in a rather dreamy and detached tone.

"Hello, Brittany." I moved over to the little mini fridge and pulled out a Coke. Quinn preferred her joy in meaty strips of fake bacon while I preferred my joy in the form of a cold, overly caffeinated drink from a can. I told her that those meat strips would be the death of her on the field, she told me that I shouldn't wonder why I get so many migraines when all I drink is Coke. "How are we looking?"

Brittany gave me a thumbs up, actually looking animated for a brief moment before adding, "We're looking good."

Brittany's real name was Georgette Meissonier. Like Quinn and I, Brittany was born after zombies became a common, everyday occurrence, during the period where George, Georgette and Barbara were the most popular names among girls. She was the Jennifer of our generation. Most of the girls just rolled over and took it in stride. After all, George Romero _is _considered one of the accidental saviors of the human race and its not like being named after him is uncool. It's just rather common and Brittany hated being anything remotely common.

Brittany was all about cool professionalism when Quinn and I found her at a job fair a little while back. That lasted for all of about five minutes. We introduced ourselves and she responded with, "I'm cute, blonde and I act like a cheerleader on most days with just the right amount of spouting nonsense. What do _you _think I should call myself?"

We stared at her blankly and she muttered some nonsense about a pre-Rising TV show filled with singing teenagers and a cute blond cheerleader that was ditzier than the average cheerleader before dropping the subject all together. Not that I cared in the least. As long as she did her job and kept our equipment running in top shape, she could call herself whatever she wanted. Plus, having her on the team provided an air of the exotic: She was born in Alaska, the last, lost frontier. Her family moved after the government declared Alaska a lost cause and ceded it over to the infected.

"Okay, I got it," she announced, disconnecting the headset and leaning over to turn on the nearest feedback monitor. A single image of Quinn poking at the zombie with her hockey stick came up on the screen but no sound emitted from the van. A single zombie moan could attract a horde from up to a mile away if you're an unlucky person and soundproofing the inside of a vehicle made for field work was stupid and unsafe. Soundproofing works both ways and zombies tend to surround structures on the off chance that there was something inside that could satisfy their craving for something to eat and chase after. Opening the van doors only to find ourselves completely surrounded by the undead would be less than ideal for surviving and that's exactly how we would find ourselves had we decided to soundproof the van.

"The image is a little fuzzy but I can clean it up much better once I have a chance to hit up the source files. Rachel, thanks for remembering to put your helmet on before driving off. That front mounted camera worked wonders."

To be completely honest, I hadn't remembered the camera on the helmet at all. I was too busy trying to make sure we didn't become snack foods and mindless undead to actually remember that the helmet would be filming the entire suicide jump from atop my head. Still, I nodded in agreement, taking another sip of my Coke before saying, "How many of the cameras continued to film this excursion into the undead territory?"

"Three out of the four. Quinn's helmet didn't come on until you were almost here."

"Quinn didn't have time to put her helmet on since she was busy trying to make sure she had a head to put that helmet on," Quinn protested.

"Quinn should stop talking about herself in third person," Brittany said as she brought up a close up image of our blood test results. "I want to use this image on the main site. What do you think?"

"Whatever you say, Brittany. You know I don't care about the graphics." I watched the screen broadcasting our main external security camera. It was showing off an undisturbed, unmoving landscape. Nothing moved in Watsonville.

"And that would be why your ratings aren't higher, Rach. I like the lights. I want to use them as a slow fade for tonight's segment with a caption that says something about 'How close is too close?'" Quinn replied, leaning back in her chair.

"'Close Encounters on the Edge of the Grave,'" I muttered, moving toward the screen. The outside was a little too unmoving for my liking and I've long since learned to listen to my instincts. God knows Brittany and Quinn weren't listening to anything except their chatter about tonight's posts. Maybe I was being paranoid but the outside was beginning to unnerve me.

Quinn grinned, "I like that, baby. Grayscale the image except for the lights and use that."

"Got it," Brittany typed herself a quick note before shutting down the monitor. "Anymore plans for this afternoon?"

"Getting back to civilization. As much as I enjoy being in the middle of an abandoned city with nothing out there but the air we breathe, I'm beginning to dislike the lack of movement. I'm on the bike and I'll take the lead."

Brittany looked a bit confused. She was a Fictional; her style of blogging was completely self-contained and the only time she ever sees the field is when Quinn and I drag her out to work the equipment. Even then, she rarely leaves the van and this gives her no reason to pay attention to the monitors of the outside of the van.

Quinn on the other hand, sobered immediately, asking, "Why?"

"There is nothing moving in the city at the moment. Something should be moving," I responded. I opened the back door, scanning the landscape. It had taken me a few minutes—perhaps a few too many—to notice what was so unnerving about this situation but once I did, it was all too clear what I had missed earlier.

There should always be something moving outside, from feral cats to rabbits to deer. We had seen everything from goats to someone's abandoned Shetland pony but the point was that there was always _something _moving outside. Nothing clears out wildlife like the infected, however and it was only just now becoming apparent that the infected had cleared out everything in the area.

"Shit," Quinn grimaced.

"Shit, indeed. Buffy, grab your gear."

"I'll drive the van," Quinn answered, moving toward the front of the van while I was getting ready to hop out the back.

Brittany looked between us, confused and a little worried. "Okay, so does anyone want to fill me in?"

"There isn't any wildlife, Britt."

I paused while putting on my gloves to finish the sentiment. "And we would like to remove ourselves from the area before we get some com—" I didn't get to finish my statement before the sound of a low moan reached our ears.

"Right, race you home!" Quinn shouted from the front while Brittany tossed me a sympathetic look before locking up the back of the van. I heard all three bolts click shut and I knew that no matter how much I screamed, they wouldn't be letting me back inside anytime soon. Rules of the field: Once the door is locked, it doesn't open again. Not if they wanted to live anyway.

Quickly putting on my gloves, I grabbed my helmet and pulled it on before hopping on my bike and starting it up. There were no zombies in sight but the moaning from the north and the east was getting exceptionally louder as time passed. As I got ready to pull out in front of the van, I knew Brittany would be checking the security cameras and fastening her seatbelt while wondering why we were reacting so badly to the sound of zombies that weren't in range of sight and probably no where near close to us. I hoped that if there was a God, Brittany would never have to find out the answer to that question.

The van pulled out, bumping and shaking as it made its way onto the freeway. I gunned the engine on the bike and took off in front of the van where Quinn could see me and we could both keep an eye on the surrounding area for anything that may be blocking our way home. It was a simple safety precaution but it has saved a lot of asses in the last twenty years or so. We rode that way, separated by a thin piece of broken road all the way out of the valley, through the South Bay and into the cool, welcoming air of Berkley, California.

Home sweet zombie-free home.


	4. Blog 2

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Glee or Feed. They belong to Ryan Murphy and Mira Grant, respectively.

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These are the blog updates from the three main characters in the book. Enjoy. (:

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_...as she pressed her hand to the other girl's cheek, Naya could feel her flesh burning up from within, changing as the virus that slept in all of us awoke in her lover. She blinked back tears, licking suddenly dry lips before she managed to whisper, "I'm so sorry, Heather. I never thought it would end this way."_

_"It doesn't have to end this way for you," she replied and smiled, sorrow written in her still bright eyes. "Get the hell out of here Naya. There's nothing left in this wasteland but the dead. Go home. Live, and be happy."_

_"It's too late for that. It's too late for me." She held up the blood test and watched as her lover's eyes widened, taking in the meaning of the single red light burned its way into their minds. "It's been too late since the attack." Her own smile was as weak as the blond's. "You called me the hyacinth. I guess I belong in the wasteland."_

_"At least we are damned together," Heather replied, and she kissed her._

**-From **_**Love as a Metaphor**_**  
originally published in **_**By the Sounding Sea**_**  
the blog of Brittany Meissonier, August 3, 2039**

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_Quinn and I never met her parent's biological son. He was a kindergarten student during the Rising, and he survived the initial wave thanks to her parents, who pulled him out of class as soon as the data started pointing to public schools as amplification flash points. They did everything they could to protect him from the threat of infection. Everyone had assumed that he would be one of the lucky ones._

_The couple next door had two golden retrievers, each weighing well over forty pounds, which put them in the range where amplification was entirely possible and most likely to occur. One of the dogs was bitten-it was never determined by what-and began conversion to that of the undead variety. No one had realized what was happening because this type of conversion had never happened before. Philip Anthony Fabray was the first case of human Kellis-Amberlee conversion by way of animal initiation._

_The honor does nothing to ease the pain and help Quinn's parents achieve maximum rest at night._

_I am aware that my stance against pet ownership is not that of the popular vote. People love dogs, people love horses, and they want to continue to keep them in their private homes. I completely understand this, I really do. I also completely understand that animals want to be free and that sick animals are more likely to break their restraints to go and seek "comfort". However, eventually "comfort" becomes an incredibly increasing need to "find something to bite" and they then seek out things that are easy to take down and eat. I support the Biological Mass Pet Ownership Restrictions, as do my girlfriend's parents. Perhaps if her brother were alive today, we'd all feel differently about this. However, he is not._

**-From **_**Images May Disturb You**_**  
the blog of one Rachel Berry, November 3, 2039**


	5. Author's Note!

Hey readers.

I am so, so, _so_ very sorry. There are not enough words for how sorry I am that I pretty much dropped off the face of the earth while adapting this over. There are a multitude of excuses _(My laptop died, my grandmother died, I got a shitty job, I left that shitty job, my back tire went flat, my other tire just blew out, I got distracted by a side project involving anon meme's and their fic exchanges, losing all my motivation to even pick up a pen, etc.)_ that I could give you guys but its all just that- **excuses**.

I promise that I am not abandoning this but you guys are going to have to be patient a little longer. Unfortunately, I'm starting a new job soon and there is a Halloween/Birthday party that I am going to that will take up the better part of all next week. But I am working on the next chapter (as well as attempting to make it just a bit more IC than it has been) and I hope to have it up soon.

- ATFF


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